what I do. We had another tense discussion after we got home last night. He almost had me convinced I never received any messages from an unknown person, and that I had made it all up in my head. I wanted to believe him so bad. Maybe that’s why I was close to being convinced. I would give anything to wake up from this and have it all be a bad dream.
Thankfully, Parker’s not in the office. I think a little time away from him might do me some good. I have a lot going on in my head, and even though he’s the only one in my corner right now, my feelings about him are muddled at best. I had an epiphany while standing in the shower earlier. After my anger settled about the whole “Parker’s girlfriend” thing, I realized that he can’t help but make drama wherever he goes. It’s kind of his M.O. The last thing I need right now is more of that in my life.
I look over at Mr. Whitman when I hear the clank of his glasses hitting the desk. He’s fallen asleep. I told him to go home and get some rest, but he insisted on staying late with me to help with the last-minute changes. He mentioned something about “if there’s work to be done, a captain should be around to help.”
“Mr. Whitman?” I ask.
He wakes up with a jerk of his head. I feel bad I startled him from his peaceful slumber, since it really looks like he needs it.
“Sorry, must’ve dozed off,” he replies while massaging his temples. “I’ve slept horribly these past few nights. It’s this stupid sleep apnea machine my wife insists that I wear so I don’t stop breathing in the middle of the night. The thing’s so damn uncomfortable.”
“I didn’t know you had sleep apnea.”
“Yep, pretty much all my adult life. Bad genes, I guess,” he laughs.
I walk over and place Gunnar’s picture and article on the desk in front of him because I can’t bear to stare at it anymore. “Well, it’s finished,” I say.
“It’s a shame, what happened to that poor boy. Terrible, just terrible,” he say quietly to himself as he looks at the picture.
“Yeah, a lot of terrible things have happened lately, huh?”
“Well, you know what they say: When it rains, it pours.”
I let out a sigh. “True.”
“I’m going to head to the vending machines. Do you want anything? I need some sugar and caffeine, stat,” he jokes.
“I’m good. Thanks, though,” I say before returning to my desk.
He chuckles, but it sounds halfhearted. “Suit yourself.”
A sudden chill courses through me and I shiver in the frosty, air-conditioned room. Reaching for the sweater draped around the back of my chair, I pull it on to keep the cold at bay.
When I begin to suffer from eye strain after gazing at the computer for too long, I decide to get up and stretch my legs. The simple that fact I’m alone in the room hits me when I start to wander around. The feeling of paranoia sneaks into the back of my mind, and I begin to wish Mr. Whitman hadn’t stepped out to get a damn candy bar.
Buzz…Buzz…
My phone vibrates on the desk. It taps against the metal pen holder, making the sound more pronounced. Uneasiness fills me as I stare at the phone, not really wanting to check it. Growing up, all I ever wanted was a cell phone, but now I’m really regretting ever begging my parents for one.
I slowly make my way around the desk while running my hand across the smooth, wood surface, contemplating picking up the phone. It vibrates again when I reach out to grab it. I see my hand trembling as I bring the phone in front of my face, experiencing a sense of dread I’ve never felt. Turning it on, I see two messages on my home screen and press the icon to reveal them. They’re both from Unknown.
You have a choice to make, Dani…
I can’t scroll down fast enough to get to the next part of the message:
Save the teacher or the friend.
I make a last-ditch effort to appeal to the person and send a message of my own:
You don’t have to do this! No one else has to die!
It only takes a few moments to get a short and blunt reply:
Your move.
Before I stuff the phone into my pocket, I get the bright idea to forward this whole conversation to my dad. Finally